


The Strap

by Arcwin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, BAMF John Watson, Case Fic, Diary/Journal, Letters, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-11-06 20:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17946185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: In 1879, Sherlock Holmes investigated the disappearance of a skilled sportsman in Eastern Germany. All that remains of the story are his letters back home to his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and his personal notes as he worked the case, which are collected here. They have been arranged chronologically to best explain the bizarre happenings in the small village of Werben.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Huilepour for the request! I have always wanted to take requests and this prompted quite a story. Hope this is everything you were hoping for!
> 
> *Note: This is **not** an A/B/O type of story. I didn't realise that it could be mistaken for that, but it is definitely not like that.*

10 August 1879

My Dearest Hudders,

As requested (though I fail to see the importance of it), I am writing to inform you of my arrival in Werben, Germany after rather _dreadful_ and _tedious_ travel. And, since you require _detailed_ updates, I shall recount the events between when you left me at the train station and this morning.

I was immediately grateful for the single sleeping car as I surveyed the rest of the passengers joining me on this journey--though they might have been curious to observe for a short time, any interaction with them beyond simple nods and smiles would have driven me quite mad. That said, I did spend some time in the leisure car each day making deductions about the various occupants of the train, which I will share with you now.

There was a man, Hudders, who you would have found particularly fascinating. I deduced that he was of low status and had somehow acquired an upper class ticket, probably through some means of manipulation or deception. He was charming and clever, and before the end of the first supper of the journey had made his way up the social hierarchy on the train to the Baroness with us. A vapid woman, Hudders, irritating to say the least, but with _power_ , which makes her automatically a source of attention. Our clever trickster wormed his way in with her, and by the time our evening cordials were drained and the candles were flickering with the last bits of wick and wax, he was escorting her off to her sleeping quarters. She laughed and clutched his arm, calling him _Jim_ as if they had known each other since childhood. They rarely made appearances after that first evening, and I was disappointed. No one else seemed to compare in intellect and cunning, and I was therefore quite _bored_.

As mentioned previously, it was _dreadful_.

Once the train reached Berlin Central Station, I was forced to collect my possessions and disembark. There are no trains to Werben, as it is such a small village. The next leg of my journey was done by horse, and felt as though it took nearly as long as the train despite not being even a third of the distance. Of course, it was exceptionally troublesome as the driver who had come to fetch me was overly talkative with very little to say. I was nearly ready to snap at him, fed up, when he mentioned the reason for my journey to the far reaches of Europe.

 _Come to find out what happened to Anderson, are ya?_ he asked me (in German, of course). Though it’s been some time, the language came back quickly to me. I have always had an affinity for language, as you know, far outperforming my brother when it comes to the Germanic strains. He prefers _romance_ languages, which is downright amusing. Mycroft, _romantic_? I have a feeling he would find it so overwhelming he’d either flee or faint. (A sight I’d rather like to see, to be honest.)

I conversed with the driver for some time, asking him questions about the case and what he knew.

Turns out, very little.

It was then that I lit my pipe and turned away to stare off into the black woods while he drove on in silence. Better to spend my time speaking to people who may actually have information than those who like to spread pathetic rumours and little else.

There is a singular inn in the village, a quaint establishment with breathtaking knotty pine paneling and a roaring fireplace flanked by well worn armchairs on the main floor. Once I informed the innkeeper of my arrival (he knew at once who I was, of course; not many visitors in this area of Germany, I gather) and the errand boy delivered my luggage, I took the liberty of relaxing at the fire with a glass of their finest port. It was a welcome libation after such long and arduous travel--the perfect companion for my frazzled nerves and well-packed pipe. There aren’t many people staying at the inn, so I spent my time with my thoughts tucked safely away in my Mind Palace, reviewing the letter I received requesting my assistance and creating my plan for investigation.

It is now morning, and I am prepared to begin. The game is on!

Regards,

~S. Holmes

* * *

10 August 1879

Day 1; Werben, Germany

Approximately two weeks ago a man named Anderson left in the early morning on a hunting trip, and failed to return. Though initially this case seemed solvable by post alone, upon further examination of the local newspaper articles I decided to travel out to Eastern Germany myself and investigate. Anderson was portrayed as a skilled sportsman, one that had experience hunting a variety of large animals throughout Europe. Though I suppose the thrill of the chase might be enough to entice me, I have never considered hunting animals as a particularly noble past-time. That said, one detail in the information I gleaned from the newspapers caught my attention: the local blacksmith crafted _silver_ bullets for the hunter. He lamented their loss, for they represented some of his best work, though seemed uncaring about the man carrying them.

 _Curious_.

Anderson, a man of humble upbringing and low wealth, would have spent nearly all of his earnings on such exotic ammunition, which begs the question: what was he hunting?

No one in the village seemed to know.

Or, at least, no one seemed keen enough to share that they knew.

And so, I suffered the long journey to arrive in Werben. My first stop will be to the very blacksmith that crafted said bullets in the hopes that he might share with me what Anderson could have needed them for.

* * *

What a waste of time! The man spent more of his breath complaining about what a fool Anderson was and how long he worked on the bullets than he did on anything else of note. I probed every way I knew how, asking him time and again what the hunter might have been after. The smith, named Lestrade, merely shook his head and continued on, cursing the man in colorful German expletives while banging on a piece of iron he was shaping into a spike. When I asked him where Anderson purchased the silver for the bullets, he merely shrugged and continued on with the racket he was creating.

"Who is this for?"  I finally tried, gesturing at the iron spike. It was approximately 1.5 metres long, and the right diameter to fit comfortably in a man’s hand.

"Watson," he answered, still shaping the hot iron.

"What does he need it for?"  I asked. Lestrade shrugged, throwing the hot iron into his water and filling the shop with steam. It was then that I gave up and left, bidding him good morning.

I declined to thank him for his company, as he was useless.

Along my stroll through the village back to the inn, I passed the local market filled with servants and maidens bartering for items to make their supper. Unfortunately, the village is of a size that each person recognizes the other, and newcomers such as myself draw exaggerated attention. The moment I entered the edge of the market to become acquainted with their customs and wares, the townspeople fell quiet except for their hushed conversations about _the outsider_. Naturally, I ignored them and did my best to act uninterested while eavesdropping to gather information. The majority of what I heard was again useless, focusing on who I was and why I had arrived. Most of them got something incorrect, and I considered correcting them, but then something out of the ordinary caught my attention.

At the edge of the market was a man of smaller stature than most German men who had sandy blonde, scruffy hair with piercing eyes who was not busying himself with gossip like the rest of the idlers. Instead, he was staring directly at me across the market, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled. It was unnerving knowing this man was watching my every move, as he did nothing to hide his clear interest in me. I wondered if perhaps he was paranoid of strangers, though the way he held himself did not suggest fear. Far from it, in fact. Our eyes lingered on each other, for his gaze seemed a challenge that I did not want to back down from.

And in the next moment, as someone passed between us, he _vanished_.

I asked the baker at the stall in front of me if he had seen the man, and the baker shook his head and shrugged. His companion was also useless, so I dove into the fray, weaving towards the spot I had seen the man. It took barely a minute for me to traverse the small square, landing at exactly the place he was.

"Who was that man?"  I demanded of the servant selling cuts of venison and links of sausage. The servant ignored me, offering the finest steak he had available to me. I again demanded the name of the bizarre man, and the salesman pulled another steak from the table, holding it up in my face while exclaiming in German that it was clearly the meat a _man of my wealth_ ought to consume this evening. Though it appeared rather fresh, I declined and strode away, irritated.

I returned to the inn and decided to entertain the steam room as a means to relax and reorder my thoughts, and now I am sitting near the hearth with my pipe. Perhaps I will go speak with the constable about the disappearance and attempt to gather more information, as he was the one who sent for me in the first place. The rest of the villagers seem wary of me, sharing very little if any information. This evening I will endeavour to patronize the local pub as a means to win them over.

 _Simpletons_.


	2. Chapter 2

11 August 1879

My Dearest Hudders,

My introduction to Werben has certainly been _interesting_. When I last wrote, I detailed my travel by train, my arrival to the village, and the beginnings of my investigation into the disappearance of the local sportsman. Since then, I have some curious updates to share with you.

I spent yesterday attempting to gather additional information about the man Anderson and his peculiar commission of the local smithy of some silver bullets prior to his disappearance. Such a man would not have the disposable income for such rarities, so it seemed appropriate to start my data gathering there. Unfortunately, due to either a complete lack of character or utter imbecility, the blacksmith Lestrade had essentially nothing of interest to communicate. _Disappointing_ , to say the least.

However, on my walk back to the inn, I passed a small local market in the village square. As I perused the wares at one end of the aisle, there was a man who caught my interest at the other end. He was a stout, blonde man with piercing eyes who seemed particularly curious about me. I suppose I must be quite distinguishable from the rest of the village, and he is perhaps particularly prone to paranoia about strangers. I recognize that none of these details are important. What _is_ , however, is the fact that no one seemed keen on sharing the identity of the man with me. In such a small village, most certainly the various men I asked knew exactly of whom I spoke, and were instead keeping the man’s name from me purposely. What they have to hide about him, I do not know, but it won’t take me long to find out.

Following my walk in the village, I enjoyed some time in the sauna to gather my thoughts and prepare myself for a meeting with the constable, a man by the name of Dimmock. He is a wafish man, thin and sickly looking with a voice pitched higher than I expected. Although he was the one who requested my assistance, he seemed annoyed with my presence, dictating to me the various things he’s done to investigate and asserting that there was no more to be done about it. I assured him that I would inevitably prove him wrong, which earned me a short tempered glare and a curt “guten Nachmittag” (good afternoon). Had you been present, you might have reminded me to mind my manners. Instead, I smiled broadly and tipped my hat, again assuring him that I would have answers by the third day of my holiday in his humble town, despite his insistence that it was futile. One of his deputies ushered me out shortly thereafter, entreating me to avoid their offices in the future.

It is a bit odd, Hudders, how suspicious the townsfolk are, cautious and overly guarded even after I introduce myself and state my business. The only person who has seemed interested in me so far was the man at the market, but even his curiosity was bizarre. It seems Germany is far removed from our society in so much more than just geography. I have a feeling about it, though, that I can’t seem to shake. I’m not prone to trusting it as base instinct, as I instead attribute it to observations made by my senses that my brain has yet to categorize, but there is a shiver that crawls up my spine whenever I am contemplating this intriguing case. There is something I’m missing, and I will certainly find out what it is.

Do write back and let me know how things at Baker street are holding up. I would love to hear any updates about London, as well. I miss her.

Regards,

~S. Holmes

* * *

11 August 1879

Day 2

My evening was fruitful, to say the least. I spent more time out than I had intended, but was able to gather quite a bit of information after the libations loosened the tongues of the patrons at the pub. Though it was clear that many of the villagers were still wary of me, there were several sportsmen in attendance that had known Anderson personally. The most important pieces of data I gathered from them were the following:

1: Anderson was hunting a _new_ creature in the woods, something that hasn’t ever been caught or killed before.

2: He was not a well-liked man, known for being rude and brash with most of the people in the village. Not many of the townspeople are mourning his loss, though they _are_ concerned about the cause of his death.

3: The woods are not a place to enter alone, even in daylight.

I probed many of the men, hoping to hear what it was that made the woods such a dangerous environment. None were able to say aloud, casting furtive glances at one another and muttering to themselves in a local dialect I couldn’t quite understand. Whatever it is, they were sure to keep it from me. No matter. I will learn of it on my own.

As the evening wore on, I hoped to see that man from the marketplace, though luck was not with me. Lestrade entered the pub after many of the patrons were well on their way to inebriation, tipping his hat at me before joining the crew I had been interviewing at a table in the back. The men welcomed him heartily, singing a hunting song in German for him and slapping him on the back. I spent some time observing them, curious to see the depth of their relationships, though found nothing out of the ordinary about them.

Once I returned to the village, I partook of a small dram of morphine and settled myself by the fireplace to let me thoughts wander without tethers. I do some of my best thinking in this state, as the anxieties of daily life are stripped away and my consciousness is free to roam. I awoke as the early roosters announced dawn, the soft grey light peeking through the curtains at the opposite end of the dim room.

After a simple breakfast, I decided to gather what supplies I could and head to the forest on the edge of town. If the villagers were afraid of the forest, and Anderson had disappeared there, it only made sense to investigate it myself. The innkeeper, upon hearing my plan, shook his head with so much force he nearly lost the glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

“Mr. Holmes, I do not recommend you enter the forest alone,” he insisted, his fingers twitching at his side. “It is not safe,” he added, pursing his lips.

“So I’ve heard. However, a man has disappeared, and I have been employed to find out why,” I replied with a shrug as I tugged my hat onto my head. “And I have yet to hear the tale of how the woods came to be so dangerous, so I will find out for myself.”

The man frowned, bringing his hands together to wring them once before reaching out to rest them on the sides of my arms. “Mr. Holmes, there are...rumours,” he whispered, his cheeks darkening with shame. “There are rumours of...men in the forest.”

“Men? And what do I have to fear of men in the forest, my good fellow?” I interrupted, incredulous.

“Not just any men,” he added, voice still quietly anxious. “Men who have made deals with the Devil himself, and wear the skin of wolves whenever they so please. As I said, Mr. Holmes...it is not safe in the woods.” He released me and shook his head again, a tremble in his hands.

I did not contain my laughter at this absurd belief. “Well, since the Devil is an abstract concept used to intimidate those with lesser morals, and wearing furs is hardly a reason for alarm, I do believe I shall take my chances amongst the trees.”

“Then I shall mourn your loss, Mr. Holmes,” he said sadly. He walked away from me, heading to his office at the completion of our conversation.

“Does no one enter the woods, then?” I called after him.

He paused, turning to glance at the fire, and answered, “No one with the exception of Watson. He lives there, though how he survives, nobody knows. Keep your distance. He doesn’t like--”

“Strangers?”

“No. _People_.”

I packed my pipe and set off, traversing the road that I had arrived by until I found the place where the edge of town met the first dark trees of the forest. As I entered the wood, I was surprised at the sudden change in sound. The trees seemed to drop around me, blanketing the air and keeping the typical noises of the forest dulled as if underwater. No bird calls, or wind, or rustling in the underbrush that I’ve grown accustomed to hearing in the countryside surrounding London. My footsteps were quiet, even, dampened by the plush earth beneath my feet. I walked for nearly a mile when I came across a wooden sign tacked to a birch tree. Carved into the wood were the words for _Go Away!_ in German. When I looked past the tree, I could barely make out the outline of a small shack back in the forest, approximately 300 metres beyond the sign. Watson’s house, no doubt.

Just as I stepped past the sign, there was a crack of twigs behind me and a hand on my shoulder, yanking me roughly back outside the perimeter.

“You really should do what the sign says, _stranger_.”


	3. Chapter 3

11 August 1879

Day 2 (continued)

Naturally, I was startled by the sudden presence of the short, blonde man I had seen in the marketplace. He had the same piercing stare that I had witnessed previously, though upon closer inspection I determined that his intensity was merely due to the brightness in his eyes and the steel set of his jaw. There was a gruff demeanor about him, something just shy of wild that I attribute to his living arrangements and near constant isolation. It seems he isn’t quite comfortable conversing with other humans, preferring solitude and the beasts of the forest as his companions. As he glared at me, his left hand caressed a worn leather strap hanging from his belt, something that was clearly decades old and held great value for the man. I bit back my tongue, for it burned to ask him about it, and instead leaned towards cordiality.

“Watson, I presume,” I greeted him, stepping away from his tense hand on my shoulder. “That _is_ your house,” I added, gesturing off into the forest with the flick of my hand.

He narrowed his eyes, barely taking them off of me, and scratched at his unshaven cheek. “What do you want?” he asked finally, voice barely above a growl. His hair shone in the dappled light descending through the trees, a pleasant mix of gold, bronze, silver, and platinum. Such a stark contrast to the darkened bags beneath his blue-gold eyes and the greyish pallor of his skin.

“A man disappeared while on a hunting trip in these woods. What do you know of him?” I took a few steps towards his house, keeping him in my periphery while examining the trees. (A comfortable composition of beech, oak, and pine, as one would expect for this area of Germany.)

Watson moved to stand between me and his cabin, blocking the line of sight, and snorted to himself. “Anderson was an idiot,” he finally said. “He got what he deserved,” he added under his breath.

“ _Oh_? And that means?”

Inhaling deeply through his nostrils, Watson cocked his head to the side and huffed, then smiled in a way that sent a chill up my back. “I’m sure the innkeeper informed you of the dangers in the forest, _stranger_. Anderson knew what he was getting himself into. Let it be, and leave this place.”

He blinked at me twice, then took one last deep breath before turning on his heel and weaving his way back through the forest towards his home.

“I didn't have the chance to introduce myself,” I called after him. He paused a moment, never turning back to face me, and shook his head before continuing on. I considered shouting after him a second time, but the set of his muscular shoulders informed me that keeping my silence was the wiser option.

It took him much less time to cross the distance than I expect it would take most men, his confidence and knowledge of the area a clear advantage. I watched him until he was merely a darkened shadow amongst the trees, barely discernible, then turned away to head back to the path.

I spent the walk back to the village deep in thought, replaying our interaction and dissecting it. Watson is clearly from this area of Germany given his skin tone, bone structure, and general stature, though he is not from this village. He has no ties to the people here, and seems to be a bit of a mystery to them. It is likely that he had a traumatic or shameful event occur in the last place he lived, probably his hometown, and so he needed to cut all semblance of relation from his life in order to continue on. No one need know of him or his secret past, whatever that may be. It is intriguing, to say the least, and puts him at the top of my list of potential suspects for the disappearance of the sportsman.

And then there is the matter of his behavior, which borders on animalistic in some ways. He seems particularly defensive of his home, guarding it like one might expect a dog to guard a treasured bone. If I hadn’t interacted with him to this depth, I might have assumed he lacked intellect or civility. This is clearly not the case, though there might be some argument for his lack of etiquette. _Curious_.

Obviously another trip into the forest is warranted, though with the goal of trying to gain entrance to Watson’s cabin to investigate. I shall observe his behavior over the next few days and determine his patterns and routines. This way, I can predict when he will be absent from his home, decreasing the chances that I might anger him with my invasion. Though he struck me as merely a disgruntled, albeit aesthetically pleasing, hermit, there is too much evidence related to him to ignore without further data.

For now, I intend on spending the afternoon in the marketplace, getting to know the villagers better. There is an air in this town of dis-ease, a feeling of paranoia that is preventing me from gathering the information I need to continue my investigation. I am too much a stranger for the people here. Though I loathe creating social connections, it seems necessary in this environment if I am going to be successful in determining the true story of the man’s disappearance.

* * *

12 August 1879

Day 3

There are secrets in this town that no one is keen on sharing. No matter. I’ll sniff it out, regardless. I am, after all, the great Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

13 August 1879

Day 4

I’ve been investigating Anderson’s background. Seems he wasn’t much liked in the town, as he was a bit of a braggart. Additionally, he was apparently brash, irritating, and rude to the women. The most interesting fact about him seems to be his belief in the men of the forest who wear the skin of wolves, and that it indeed what he was hunting in the first place.

Perhaps Watson was right--he may have been deranged. Upon further consideration, it seems these “men” that the people here are afraid of may actually be shapeshifters of a sort. I am disinclined to believe in such fairy tales. There is no logical explanation for such a creature, and no one seems able to provide hard evidence or data on the subject. I remain, therefore, skeptical.

Watson hasn’t returned to my sights since our interaction in the forest. _Pity_ , I was hoping to observe him further.

* * *

13 August 1879

Dear Sherlock,

It’s been absolutely delightful receiving your letters. The case you’ve described sounds dreadful indeed--exactly the kind of adventure I would expect you to enjoy. I am eager to learn of your interactions with the man at the marketplace. He sounds intriguing, the type you might pursue out of pure curiosity alone.

London is London. Your brother Mycroft came by the day after you left for your trip. He was quite incensed that you had left the country, and demanded a return date for you. Apparently he has some kind of case that he needs your assistance on, and he is more than slightly annoyed that you left without mentioning it to him. Do write to him, dear, and at least let him know you are safe and when you intend on returning. I hate to be the messenger between you two boys.

I’ve been spending most of my free time baking, as usual, when I haven’t been busy tidying up your flat. Really, Sherlock, consider beating the rugs from time to time. The dust in there is intolerable. I don’t know how you manage without sneezing all the time.

Though I may complain, I do miss having you around. It’s so quiet. I find myself longing for your violin music, even in the middle of the night. Funny how easy it is to take for granted the things you find annoying, then how we miss them when they are gone. I shall be pleased to have you back, my dear boy, even if it wakes me at times I am not ready.

Do be careful out there, Sherlock. I should hate to hear that something has happened to you. I trust in your strength and cunning, but also know that your intensity gets you into troubling situations at times.

Don’t forget to eat, dearie. And write soon.

Yours,

~Martha

* * *

14 August 1879

Day 5

No sign of Watson. No additional information about Anderson. I do believe my best chances at discovering the true cause of the man’s disappearance will be in the forest. When in doubt, return to the crime scene. There’s always additional evidence to be found.

I will depart in the morning. Watson be damned--I’ll gain entry to his property, even if it means we go to fisticuffs about it.

* * *

15 August 1879

Mycroft,

I am not a dog off his lead, and you are not my handler. I will return when I do. Do not, under any circumstances, bring Mrs. Hudson into this petty feud.

Perhaps you should consider doing the fieldwork yourself. It would do you wonders around the midsection.

~SH


	4. Chapter 4

15 August 1879

Day 6

 

~~I--~~

~~I am afraid I--~~

It is difficult to explain, what I’ve just experienced. I don’t know that I shall be able to recount it accurately, as my heart won’t stop pounding in my chest. I can barely catch my breath. The innkeeper here mixed me a tincture of laudanum to help soothe my nerves, though it doesn’t seem to be helping much. I may need to resort to the morphine I have in my luggage.

Memory is best when it is fresh, though I cannot seem to stop shaking. I will do what I can to tell the tale, and I can later come back to edit the details as necessary. It is important that I document this thoroughly, and immediately. My brain is barely able to comprehend the events of this morning, so I must focus and recall everything without attempting to understand it.

I went to Watson’s house shortly after dawn. The forest was barely alive, and the silence in the trees was as thick and heavy as a wet blanket. It was remarkable, the way the woods seemed to envelope me, hiding the outside world from all senses. It was as if I stepped into another realm entirely, and if I believed in the supernatural _at that time_ I might have been concerned. As it stands, I held fast to my plan and continued to the man’s shack.

As I approached, I kept my guard up with the expectation that he might appear at any point and again remind me of his preference for privacy. He did not, and so I was able to conduct a thorough investigation of the grounds surrounding his home. The area was unremarkable, consisting of some well-kept tools for general maintenance and woodland living, such as a spade and a sharpened axe buried deep into an old stump. Examining the axe revealed that for all his small stature, Watson clearly held a hidden strength to have gotten it stuck into the wood as far as he did. It was impressive--a reminder that I should not underestimate him. Another piece of evidence for caution around my primary suspect in the disappearance of the huntsman Anderson.

He kept a small garden off to the side of his house in the solitary patch of sunlit land in this part of the forest, and it was chock full of overgrown tomato plants teeming with ripe, sun-warmed orbs. The smell of the leaves was comforting and distinctive, wafting towards me as I circled the structure looking for a means inside. An open window at the back of the house was easy access into his bedroom, and I traversed it deftly.

As expected, the interior of his house was modest, though comfortable. Very few decorations or items of whimsy adorned the surfaces or walls, making it challenging to discern much about the man’s history aside from his obvious efforts to abandon all semblance of his former life. He lived a life of solitude now, one that focused on his ability to sustain himself with as little interaction with others as he could manage. It was impressive, really, to see such determination to be _alone_.

As I wandered through his house, confirming my suspicions about his personality, I happened upon a hunting cap that had fallen on the floor and was tucked behind a small wardrobe.

It _happened_ , then, and my heart has begun racing again as I think about writing it.

Squatting on my haunches, I reached for the cap, fingers brushing against the fabric just as a low growl shook me in my own skin. Snatching up the hat, I turned my head to the right just as another growl crawled up my spine and made my breath catch in my throat.

“ _You_ ,” the monstrous voice behind me accused.

Fearful that a response might provoke aggression, I rose slowly to my feet without looking behind me, hunting cap gripped tightly in my fist. The moment my body was upright, strong hands closed around my shoulders and shoved me up against the bureau. I quickly judged that the... _individual_ that had me trapped was not only much stronger than I, but also much _taller_. A fair feat, considering I tower over most and the man most likely to be in this house (aside from myself) was Watson, who was considerably shorter than this.

Warm, damp breath bathed my neck, panting out of the mouth of the ~~person~~ creature like a dog on a hot day. Sharp nails dug into my overcoat, their points evident even through my several layers of clothing. A wet nose snuffled along the back of my ear, and I felt the telltale signs of fear and excitement flood my body as a tentative tongue tasted the skin behind my earlobe.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the voice murmured as the body behind me pressed into mine, threatening to crush me against the wardrobe. “You _saw_ the sign.”

“Watson?” I asked quietly, hoping to keep my response to him a secret. Every part of me knew that there was no way this could be the same man, yet his voice was familiar enough that I trusted my observations over my own skeptical views.

I am a scientist, after all. A man that relies on his senses and recognizes that without an open mind, humanity remains blind.

“ ** _Holmes_** ,” he growled in my ear, the scruff of his chin scratching against the back of my neck and earlobe. “You _taste_ as good as you _look_.” Another wet, warm tongue lapped at my bare skin, sending ripples down my spine. My breathing labored in my chest, the ache tight and high as his strong form wrapped around mine.

What I write next is _bewildering_ , though as accurate as I can recall.

He planted his hands on either side of my head, releasing my shoulders, and pulled away.

Dark auburn-black fur covered the backs of his hands and disappeared beneath the cuffs of his jacket. I blinked and turned in the circle of his arms, not fully believing my own eyes. I couldn’t breathe, nor did I want to as my gaze wandered up the broad expanse of his furry chest and neck. My head tipped back while I searched out his cool blue eyes amidst the face of _a gigantic wolf_ , and found familiarity amongst this alien creature towering over me.

It was undeniable. This was indeed Watson, yet he had _changed_ into... _something_ otherworldly.

“You aren’t frightened,” he commented, leaning down to inhale deeply in my hair.

“I am... _intrigued_.” My thoughts whirred to life, considering the multitude of possibilities that could create such a creature. Though my heart pounded painfully behind my ribs, the evidence of something beyond that which science has identified outweighed any emotions I may have felt as I stared at the wolf-man.

It lasted only a few moments. As we locked eyes, my bases of appetites roared to life, reminding me of how unfulfilled I had been up to that point. It is not easy to find individuals who would match my specifications--clever, interesting, strong, and masculine--and who might return my affections. Watson seemed overtly curious about me, pinning my body against the wardrobe while he continued basking in my scent.

His musculature was beyond anything I had ever witnessed, and as I reached out to touch him, he stilled substantially while focusing on the sensation. Gently, I ran my fingers through his fur and was surprised to find it soft and thick, with an undercoat that reminded me of sheepskin. Weaving deep, I stroked small circles into his arms, earning a shudder from him.

With a soul-deep sigh, Watson pulled away from me. “ _Leave_ ,” he commanded, his voice rough. “ ** _Now_**.”

“I dare not,” I replied, voice barely a whisper. “You are _marvellous_. Let me examine you. Tell me your story, Watson.”

Looking away, he shook his head. “I said **now** , stranger.”

Compelled by my own hunger and curiosity, I grabbed at his arms again and pulled him to me. “Call me Sherlock, please. I am no stranger,” was my plea. “I shall keep your secret, if you shall keep mine.” I brought his enormous hand down between us, instantly relieved at his touch.

We shuddered together, and his attraction to me was clear.

My back still aches, bruised from the way he snatched me away from the bureau and slammed me down to the floor. He caught my head in his strong hand before I was knocked unconscious, and I was grateful for his care. The scratches on my chest and hips sting, fresh cuts still red and irritated from the way his claws dug into me. His throaty growls, bone shakingly deep, echo in my thoughts as I relive our time together. The way he panted in my ear, not quite human, not quite animal, is stuck in the thin skin of my throat, still wet from his tongue. I was at his mercy, as powerless as a doll, as he ripped my clothing from my body and inhaled every inch my soul. He spoke not once as he stole pleasure from me, except to ask me one last time if I wished to leave.

“Don’t be mundane,” was my reply. Blue eyes flashed and he flipped me to my stomach, yanking me up to my hands and knees and barely giving me time to catch my breath before his body met mine. His teeth snapped together as he thrust into me, reminding me of his duality and claiming me as his own.

My body, already aching, sang within moments, and his followed not long after.

We fell, exhausted, to the floor of his shack, filling it with the sounds of our quickened breaths. As my vision cleared, the cap I had snatched up earlier caught my attention from the corner of the room, and I reached for it.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, his hand still wrapped around my hip.

We shared a look that told me all I needed to know. As I gathered my belongings, my sight fell upon his lower leg, which was wrapped several times over with the worn leather strap I had seen him caressing the day before. He followed my gaze, and without a word reached down and unwound it. As he did, his body morphed before my eyes, shrinking and losing the excess of hair that covered it. In the span of two breaths, what lay before me was the pale haired man I knew.

“He was hunting _you_ ,” I commented as I buttoned my waistcoat.

With a nod, he stood and dressed, hanging the strap from his belt.

“Did he know?”

He nodded again, then snatched up the hat on the floor and tucked it under his arm. “You should leave now,” he muttered as he walked past me out of the room.

Against my better judgment, I followed him, demanding, “Tell me how you came by that strap, Watson.”

We wove through his small shack and out the door, heading for the forge he kept lit on the side of his property. Before I could speak another word, he tossed Anderson’s cap into the fire, then walked over to his axe and chopping block to start splitting logs. I marvelled at his strength, in awe at how it took but a single swipe to break them in two. They fell to either side of the block and he placed another, splitting it easily with a _thwack!_

“Watson,” I prompted.

He paused long enough to glare at me, then growled, “Leave Germany, Sherlock, and never return. Leave before you get hurt.”

“You would _hurt_ me?” I asked, incredulous.

“Do you wish to test me?” He returned to his chore, the sounds of his axe echoing around the black trees of the forest. I lingered a moment longer, then turned on my heel and walked back to the village to document my findings here.

I am still in shock, my hand shaking despite the laudanum provided to me. Perhaps I do require some morphine so I may process all that happened with some sort of clarity.

* * *

15 August 1879

Hudders,

I have had such an experience that I daresay if I recount it here, you will find me quite mad. I would not believe it myself had I not seen it with my own eyes.

There is more to this world than science can explain presently, though I’m sure in time there will be some logic behind it. Some would try to say that magic exists, based upon the encounter I had this morning. I am still trying to wrap my head around it, grateful for the dram of morphine I packed for this trip.

I am sure you’ve heard tales of shapeshifters, of men who can transform their visage between human and beast.

As of this moment, I have some evidence to suggest that these tales may be true. That there may be some form of human evolution that has allowed certain individuals to acquire this trait. It is also possible that there is an object that possess the ability to create the illusion of animalistic size and proportions, much like that purported “magic” show we attended last Autumn.

I remain skeptical, and shaken. Further data is required before I can finalize my hypothesis.

Regardless, I do believe I have garnered the cause of the man Anderson’s disappearance. He was hunting something that outmatched and outwitted him, and it led to his doom.

Though I have solved the initial reason for my trip here, I intend on staying until I can further explain my observations this morning.

Do take care, Martha.

Sincerely,

\--SH


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I've not been feeling well, and I received some nasty comments from a few readers on this story which totally took the wind out of my sails. For those that have been supportive and following the story, thank you for your kind comments and encouragement!

15 August 1879

Dr. Hooper,

I am away investigating a peculiar case of a vanished huntsman, and I was hoping you might be able to assist me. In my time here in Eastern Germany, I have encountered stories of a man who can shift his appearance into that of a wolf. It seems related to a particular object, a leather strap, that the man keeps on his personage at all times. The strap is imbued with some sort of medicinal, hallucinogenic, or otherwise bizarre substance that causes those around the man to view him as a wolfman as opposed to a regular wolf or human. Odd, is it not?

I was wondering if perhaps you had heard of something in your medical training or travels around the world. In my investigation, I have stumbled upon some evidence that suggests that such a wolf man exists and may require further study to ascertain exactly how empirical it is to make such a wild claim. It is perplexing, to say the least.

Any information you can provide may assist me in my case. Especially if you happen to know of a way to kill it.

My appreciation for you and your work,

\--SH

* * *

17 August 1879

The constable of Werben came to see me about the case today. He strutted about as I enjoyed my breakfast, commenting on how _useless_ my investigation had been because he had already found whatever could be found. After I drained my tea, I informed him that in fact I _had_ determined the cause of the man Anderson’s disappearance some days prior. The look on his pale face was worth the berating that accompanied it.

“You _have_? And you sought fit to keep it to yourself? For what **purpose**?” he demanded, his voice ever higher with hysterics.

“Well, considering your last treatment of me, it was evident you found my very presence in this village _abhorrent_. I simply wished to keep you from having to experience such displeasure again, dear Constable,” I replied with a grin.

I daresay his face turned a shade of purple that seemed in ill health. He bristled, hands clenched at his sides, and paced to and fro like a cat trapped in a cage. “You’ll tell me this _instant_ , Holmes, or I’ll have you arrested.”

“Your threats are meaningless Constable. Nevertheless, it’s clear: Anderson went off hunting something that outsized and outwitted him, and he lost. Perhaps he should have listened more carefully to the whispers about the forest before getting himself involved in something supernatural.”

At that, the man in front of me stopped dead in his tracks while the blood drained from his face. “Supernatural, you say? You don’t mean...the rumors, are they…?” He glanced around as if certain a creature of the forest was lurking behind the curtains.

“Don’t be _ridiculous_ ,” I snapped, wiping my face and standing up. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” I gathered my hat and coat and walked past him to the door, intent on going to the market. I needed to gather more information about the local legends regarding shapeshifters, as these stories often have the bones of truth inside them.

“Holmes!” he called after me. “How do you know that Anderson died this way?”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the hunting cap I retrieved from Watson’s house and tossed it to the man. He caught it easily, staring at it in his hands, before he plopped down onto a nearby seat. I tipped my cap to him, said, “Good morning,” and left him there.

The stroll about the market was curious. At first, it seemed the townspeople went about their usual business, selling their wares and haggling with each other for favors or goods. However, I noticed a peculiar trend as the morning approached midday in that every stall run by the men of the town packed up their items well before the usual end of the market in the early afternoon. Those with female vendors stayed open, or the women split their attention between their stands and neighboring ones if the men had to leave. By lunch, all of the men were gone from the marketplace except myself. I asked a young woman at the stand I was purchasing my meal from about it, and she looked to the center of town at the church, then shook her head. We finished our transaction and as I was about to find a seat to enjoy my food, the bells of the church rang out.

Three bells, to be precise. _Danger_.

Shoving my food in my belt pouch, I stalked quickly to the church where a massive crowd was gathered. The men of the village comprised it, each of them armed with at least one weapon. The constable stood on the church steps, waving a rifle in the air as he shouted.

“There is a monster in our woods. A stranger amongst us, someone who looks and talks like us but cannot control his skin, or his appetite for flesh. You know the man I speak of--Johannes Watson…”

The man continued, yet I did not need to hear the rest of his speech. This was a rally to war, a battle cry. He had taken what little information I provided him in my arrogance and was intending on using it justify a lynching.

I can not stand by and allow such reckless, fear-driven behavior to destroy what is possibly the most interesting and important scientific discovery of our time. I only hesitate here to document what I saw and what I know in case I do not make it out of this situation alive. Though I expect the villagers of Werben will have their own version of this tale, perhaps some day the true story may be told.

In perpetuity,

~S. Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to find me on Tumblr @Arcwin1, or leave me a kudos or comment here if you like the story so far. Thanks for reading and more is on the way!


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